


the night time stars (they got nothing on us)

by rosesau



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, this is a non au and it happened because i wanted it to. it's for me and no one else, you're welcome to read it and have feelings along with me thank u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 13:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesau/pseuds/rosesau
Summary: a non au because i thought about harry coming home to louis after a long night





	the night time stars (they got nothing on us)

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if u like it and if u want to! x (dont ask about a lyab update bc idk when she's coming)

His shirt smells like Louis. The room smells like lemons and margaritas and the girl who’d been hanging on his arm for an hour smelled like too much Chanel, so much it was a little nauseating, but Harry’s shirt smells like Louis. It’s his own shirt, he bought it three years ago, but Louis was wearing it all day today and then Harry asked for it when he had to leave, so Louis took it off and kissed Harry long and soft and now the shirt smells like Louis and Harry misses him. 

It wasn’t really a bad night. He had a good time. They went to a sick concert and everyone went to the club afterwards and Harry did four tequila shots before he lost count, and, like, it was good. He had fun. But then he was drunk and he had a joke, so he turned to tell Louis and Louis wasn’t next to him and he felt himself frown. Louis was at home. He wanted to be with Louis. He had a joke about a hamburger and its color and he wanted to tell Louis, but Louis wasn’t there, so now he’s in the back of his car and his shirt smells like Louis. He’s curled in on himself and his seatbelt is making it a little uncomfortable, but he’s almost laying on his side, his chin against his chest and his nose brushing the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in the sunshiney, vanilla scent of it. It smells like Louis. 

He knows Louis couldn’t come to this event with him, it was “_ work only,” _ but it didn’t mean he couldn’t want it. Going out with Louis is always the most fun. Having alcohol in his system, Louis’ hands on his hips, Louis’ mouth on his neck, Louis’ laughter filling his ears — it’s all he wanted tonight. And he’s tired now. All he wants is Louis’ body next to his, warm and safe and homey, and he wants to sleep and — 

The car stops. It jostles Harry. There’s the sound of a car door opening and bright yellow light disrupting the quiet serenity Harry was trying to make himself part of. He squints against it, wincing from the sudden sharp darkness behind his eyes and the stars that sparkle in it. There’s a knock behind him on the window, two quick raps, and he turns around just in time to see Doran opening Harry’s door. 

“Hi, Doran,” Harry says. 

“Hi, Harry,” he says. “Let’s get you inside.” 

“Hmm.” It’s cold outside. It’s not really winter, not yet, but the wind is cold in the way that it reminds Harry of jagged ice. It cuts through his blazer and settles into his bones and he says, “It’s cold outside, Doran. I can sleep here.” It comes out in the same, low monotone that a lot of people find annoying about him, makes them think he’s pretentious for talking the way he does, but it’s his voice. What can he do about it? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. 

“I don’t reckon Mr. Tomlinson would like that very much,” Doran answers, and Harry thinks maybe he’s holding back a smile. He could be. He and Louis get on really well. They’ve got a kind of camaraderie that Harry wishes he could have with the old man, but it just doesn’t click the same way. He likes Harry, sure, but they don’t _ joke _ like he and Louis do. It drives Harry up the wall sometimes, just a bit, because everyone likes him. It’s his _ thing. _ He got Van Morrison to laugh He’ll make Doran laugh, too. He will. 

But Louis. Right. Louis’ inside. Harry’s shirt smells like Louis, but Louis isn’t here and Harry misses him. And Clifford. He misses Clifford. He sighs. “Let’s go inside.” 

He tries to get out of the car, but his seatbelt is still on and it keeps him from getting upright. “I’m stuck,” Harry tells Doran. 

Suddenly Doran is kind of hovering over Harry and unbuckling his seatbelt. “There you go.” 

“There we go.” A giggle bubbles out of Harry. 

Doran helps Harry out of the car. He’s not really drunk enough to need assistance getting inside the house, but Doran gives it to him anyway. He keeps a steady hand on Harry’s elbow, guiding him down the pavement leading his and Louis’ house. _ Louis Louis Louis _ , it’s all he can think about. Louis this and Louis that and Louis who’s probably sleeping in their bed holding Harry’s pillow and who smells like vanilla most days but sometimes like cigarettes. That’s when Harry acts like he’s disgusted, sometimes, but who’s he fooling, really, when the next thing he knows, he’s kissing Louis and laughing into his mouth and it’s like, _ I love you _, and it’s true. He loves Louis. 

“Do you need me to accompany you inside, sir?” Doran asks, snapping Harry out of his reverie. 

“No, sir,” Harry shakes his head. He’s really not _ that _ drunk. All he needs is a glass of water and a paracetamol and sleep. Sleep sounds good. “Louis’ waiting.” 

Doran doesn’t agree or disagree with him. 

It’s too quiet. 

“I still think it’s really rather ironic that your mum named you Doran,” Harry says. This time Doran hums and it’s like, _ here we go again. _ “It’s funny, though, innit?” Harry continues. “Like, she named you Doran. She could’ve chosen, like, Dorian. Or Darius or Darcy. Ooh, she could’ve named you Darcy!” He looks over at the old man, who’s cracking an amused smile, and yeah. Yeah. “Hello, Mr. Darcy,” Harry tips an imaginary hat, laughing at the sound of his own voice. Doran doesn’t look like a Mr. Darcy. He just doesn’t. He’s Doran and his name means wanderer and he’s been in the transportation business for ages and ages and ages and Harry just thinks it’s some kind of poetic irony. A driver named wanderer. Who could ever make that up?

“I think it’s more like goodnight, Mr. Styles,” Doran quips back fondly. Maybe it is goodnight. They’re at the front door and Doran has a copy of the key, so Harry lets him open it. It’s nice to have someone like Doran working for them. It’s nice not to worry about things. 

“Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” Harry asks, and it’s not that he’d usually have tea at nearly... whatever time it is now, but he’d have it with Doran if he wanted one. But Doran just politely says no, says “_ Perhaps tomorrow,” _and then Harry’s walking inside the house alone. 

It’s a big house for just two people living in it. Harry likes it when they’re both at home and when they have their families and friends over, but it’s a big house. It gets lonely when Louis isn’t around and Harry’s all alone, moving from room to room, sitting at the piano and making up lyrics that aren’t for anyone but Louis. Cliff’s usually around here, but he has to stay with someone else if both Harry and Louis are gone for some reason. Then if Harry comes back before Louis does, Clifford is gone, too, and it’s just Harry and the expansive house. Clifford’s here right now, though. Harry knows he is. The spoiled brat doesn’t come to greet Harry at the door, which might be odd, but it’s, like, whatever o’clock and he’s probably sleeping with Louis. Louis doesn’t like to sleep alone. 

Harry kicks off his boots at the foot of the stairs. They’re brand spankin’ new and it feels like there are blisters on his feet and they hurt a little. Maybe a lot. Harry walks up the stairs slowly, tripping more than once and catching himself from stumbling down just in the nick of time. It’s not because he’s drunk, though. That happens when he’s sober, too. He has always wanted to do that test where they make you walk in a straight line to see how drunk you are. He’d do it sober and he’s not sure he’d pass. He wants to do it, though. Maybe he will. Later. 

Their bedroom door is shut all the way because Louis can’t sleep with it even slightly ajar. Harry walks in, his eyes having already adjusted to the darkness, and he sees Clifford on the bed where Harry should be. He’s looking right at Harry without moving an inch and it makes Harry laugh. Harry loves him. He takes his blazer off and drapes it on the stool before slipping out of his jeans and doing the same. Clifford keeps watching him and it’s a little unsettling, but it’s normal, too. It’s just how he is. Harry pads across the carpeted floor until he’s next to the bed and he says, “Up, Cliffy,” in a hushed whisper, and the dog obeys. He all but jumps at Harry, who staggers back, because Clifford is _ heavy. _ He’s a big dog, maybe bigger than Louis on his hind legs, and he’s heavy. He licks at Harry’s face now in a proper greeting and Harry lets him because, well, he loves him and he missed him, and he loves being the favorite when Louis’ not around to steal all the attention. Louis’ always everybody’s favorite, including Harry’s. 

There’s water on the table next to their bed, along with a pack of tablets. Harry’s heart flutters for no reason because this isn’t the first time Louis has done something like this — setting aside water for Harry when he’s drunk, packing Harry’s inhaler when he forgets to, making breakfast in the mornings when Harry’s more tired than usual and sleeps in, covering him with a blanket when he falls asleep on the sofa, keeping an extra jacket in the car because sometimes Harry insists on wearing the most impractical clothes and gets cold later. Louis’ always looking out for him. 

Harry gets Clifford to calm down and drinks the water before getting in bed, right between Louis’ warm body under the covers and Cliff’s heavy one on top of them. Harry lays on his side, draping one arm around Louis and breathing in his soft scent. Harry missed this. He snuggles closer to Louis, kisses the back of his neck with a quiet _ hi _ and _ missed you _, but Louis’ asleep. Harry’s eyes are heavy, too, and he knows he’ll be asleep in a minute because it’s easy for him. He learned to fall asleep anywhere, any time, and he’s so comfortable here. So warm. And, yeah, Louis’ asleep, but he must know Harry’s next to him now because he turns over then, his arms folding around Harry because Louis’ always the big spoon. He feels Louis’ cheek pressed against his back and he says, very softly, “Love you.” 

He knows Louis doesn’t hear, but it’s okay. He’ll hear it later. 

◤◥ ◣◢ ◤◥

Harry wakes up to soft music. Piano. He’s still mostly asleep, eyelids heavy, but he recognizes the familiar melody. It’s the first song he learned to play properly and the first one he played for Louis. Louis isn’t next to him, though. It’s only Harry in their bed and everything is quiet except the gentle piano sounds, but it’s alright. The pillow next to him smells like Louis, everything smells like Louis, and Harry feels warm. There’s a dull ache blooming behind his eyelids so he keeps them closed and listens to the music coming from the record player. It sounds like something tinkling in the water or wind chimes clinking together. It sounds like home. 

Harry stays in bed for a little while longer before getting up and heading to the bathroom. He needs a shower. And he needs to eat. In an ideal world, he’d be able to do both at the same time, but life is full of trials and tribulations and he reeks of last night, so he freshens up first. The hot water feels so good on his skin. He could stay here forever. But he’s hungry and he wants to see Louis. 

When Harry comes down the stairs, he can hear the muffled sound of Louis talking to Clifford. He’s proper spoiled, that dog is. Louis probably took him out for a walk already and is now giving him a treat. There are times when Harry is almost positive that Louis would choose Cliff over him in the case of an apocalypse, or something. He just knows it. The bond between a man and his dog is unbreakable. Harry was the one who got Clifford for Louis, but that’s neither here nor there. Everyone knows if he and Louis ever break up for some ungodly reason, Louis would get custody of Cliff. 

Sure enough, as Harry walks into the kitchen, he can see Louis crouching down on the floor in front of Clifford, his back turned to Harry, laughing and talking animatedly to the dog like he understands every word Louis’ saying to him. Clifford’s enamored with Louis, of course. Everyone is. 

“Good morning,” Harry calls out and Louis’ head turns at the sound. Clifford barks his greeting and Harry laughs. 

“Hi, Haz,” Louis smiles. He scratches Cliff behind the ears again before standing up and by then Harry’s standing an arm’s length away from him. Louis closes the distance between them by pulling Harry into a hug, arms around his waist, and Harry holds him tight. This is one of his favorite Louis’ — soft, sleep riddled, messy hair, _ soft. _ Harry loves him. “Have a good night?” 

Harry hums. “Missed you, though.” 

“You always miss me.”

“Not always,” Harry lies without missing a beat. 

Louis laughs, pulls his head back and kisses Harry. It’s soft and slow like the morning and makes Harry feel hazy, like looking at the sun through tinted glass. Warm. “Always miss me,” Louis says against his mouth. 

“Always miss you,” Harry repeats. It’s the truth. “Wanted to dance with you last night, but I got stuck with Cierra instead.”

“We can dance now,” Louis says. He leans back in Harry’s arms until he’s pulling away entirely and grabs his phone from the counter. “Pick a song, baby.”

At their feet, Clifford’s whining for attention. Harry bends down to pet him. “Your Song,” he says without looking up. “It’s his song, isn’t it?” he asks Clifford, who barks in response. “Yes, it is.”

“Come here, Curly,” comes Louis’ voice, and it’s so soft and fond and it melts Harry’s heart. 

The opening chords of the song start just as Harry stands up to face Louis. His heart is beating a little faster than normal because Louis’ looking at him like _ that _ — blue eyes clear and bottomless and open and Harry’s falling. Always falling for Louis. 

_ It's a little bit funny this feeling inside _

_ I'm not one of those who can easily hide _

_ I don't have much money but, boy, if I did _

_ I'd buy a big house where we both could live _

Louis’ head is against Harry’s shoulders, their hands clasped together against Harry’s chest and it’s the most natural thing in the world. This is all Harry needs, really. His boy in his arms and the world can fall asleep with only the two of them awake. 

“What color is a hamburger?” Harry asks him, remembering the joke he wanted to tell last night. 

_ I hope you don't mind _

“I don’t know,” Louis answers, quiet as a flower unfurling its petals. 

_ That I put down in words _

“Burgundy,” Harry says, face split in half with how much he’s smiling. “Like, bur_ ger... _ bur _ gundy...” _

_ How wonderful life is while you're in the world _

Laughter bubbles out of Louis. “That’s terrible, babe,” he says, but then he’s kissing Harry’s cheek and Harry’s smiling even more. 

They just dance. They’re not really dancing, actually. They’re swaying from side to side in the same spot, but it’s the thought that counts. Harry kisses Louis again just because he can, just because he’s addicted to the taste of Louis and needs him like he needs anything else to live. 

_ You see I've forgotten _

_ If they're green or they're blue _

_ Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean _

_ Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen _

“Marry me,” Louis whispers and Harry freezes. 

One two three four five six — 

“Are you serious?” 

“Maybe.”

_ “Louis.” _

Louis grins. Harry stares. _ “Marry me.” _ Harry has heard that more than once. Every time Louis’ joking and says, _ no, not yet, baby, _ and every time Harry hits his arm a little too hard because he’s such a _ shit, _ but he’s looking at Harry like _ that _ now. Harry’s heart leaps. 

“Lou, I swear to _ God,” _ Harry starts, but that’s all he can say because Louis’ stepping away from him. He walks around the kitchen, from the drawer with the scissors to the cabinet with the teabags and then he’s back in front of Harry, getting down on one knee. “What are you —?” 

“Marry me, Harry,” Louis says, simple. 

All he has in his hands is a white string cut from a Yorkshire tea. He’s staring up at Harry and Harry’s heart is about to beat out of his chest and Louis’ _ smiling, _ just patiently waiting for Harry to say something, and Harry opens his mouth to answer and the song changes. 

_ Stars, they got nothing on us _

_ I don't think you understand _

One two three four five six — 

“Yes,” Harry says, simple.

_ Let's go out and do something we'd never do _

_ 'Cause I feel like I can do anything when... _

Louis stands up and he pulls Harry’s left hand towards him, loops the thin white string around Harry’s fourth finger and ties it delicately, brings Harry’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles where the knot sits. “I’ll get you real ring soon, I promise,” he says with the same smile. 

“Shut up,” Harry tells him. 

Louis shuts up. 

Harry kisses him. 

_ Cause my head is spinning and my feet off the ground _

_ And I can't stop dancing like no one's around _

_ And yeah, I think we were born to shine _


End file.
